Sentence First, Verdict Afterwards
by Charlotte A. Cavatica
Summary: During & post-Lock Down, also post-Worry Men. Greater forces of evil than the Rogues have stalked the halls of Arkham. Jervis Tetch deals with Lyle Bolton's rule and his own delusions. Sanity might be out there, but where? Maybe old friends can help.
1. Mad Reasoning

Disclaimer: Do you recognize the character? Then it's not mine. Don't own them, won't own them. I kind of wish I had my own personal private Paul Dini, though.

* * *

The reign of Lyle Bolton was an era that would haunt the minds of the inmates of Arkham Asylum until the days they died. Never had a man of such sadism ever been given absolute dominion over the Rogue Gallery and held his position without suspicion for so long. For many of the inmates, it was the first time in their adulthoods that they had ever been truly terrified of an enemy.

This time was, for Jervis Tetch, one of the worst experiences that he'd ever endured. Like all of the other inmates, he'd been treated as little more than an animal, abused nearly beyond the point of endurance.

However, he was much luckier than many of his colleagues. Outside the walls of Arkham, events managed to align themselves in ways that dulled the pain and even brought him hours of joy and hope. He experienced moments in reality (and yes, in delusions) that he would treasure forever, despite the threat of Bolton's cruelty.

* * *

Dr. Joan Leland was not directly involved in the day to day lives of the inmates. She was the overseer of their mental health, responsible for conducting therapy sessions for groups and individuals. Not unlike other officials, Leland suspected that something was wrong somewhere in the quality of life of her patients, but they were always completely silent, making up excuses for burns or bruises.

And Lyle Bolton, or one of his orderlies, was always there to escort them so carefully to and from their appointments.

Bolton was really so conscientious, making sure that everyone arrived on time and stayed for their allotted duration. He sometimes offered to sit in if she needed any help, but she always turned him down. He'd smile and reassure her that he'd be just outside the door if she needed anything. Then he'd wink at the patient in a jesting sort of way, and leave.

Whenever Leland asked the patient about his or her shaking after Bolton left, she'd get the response that the medication was causing twitching. She'd make a note and proceed with the session.

Visitations were no different. On time, monitored for the duration, and out of the room the very second visiting hours were over. No exceptions, no dallying, just clocklike efficiency. Admittedly, Leland watched this closely, as the order seemed a little forced, a little dictatorial. But she never heard a word of complaint, never the slightest suggestion of a problem.

So she let it go.

* * *

Last night had been particularly difficult for Jervis.

Crane had returned from a "meeting" with the security director with an impressive shiner and what looked like a sprained wrist, murder in his snarl but suicide in his eyes.

The inmates were not officially allowed to talk across their cells, and it was a mad proposition to do so with Bolton around, but Jervis was willing to risk it.

"Crane?"

Silence.

"Crane, say something."

"I've come to realize that torturing with gas was really too gentle. Right now, I regret not having used my scythe more."

"Well, at least you're thinking."

Aloneness echoed through the halls, the high ceilings suggesting a cathedral. Around the two cells, others tried to gain a few hours of freedom in sleep. Jervis had tried, but his mind had been whirling all night, jumping to and from his cell and the table of the tea party in Wonderland and back again. He wondered for a moment if he was improving, since he knew when he was lucid, and it was when he was paying attention to the grey walls and the cavernous institution.

He worried that he was regressing and that the horrid fantasy of the asylum and this man beside him was a sad nightmare that plagued him in his dreams as he dozed at the table in Wonderland.

There was a quiet "snk" sound.

"…Did you hear that?"

Crane didn't respond.

"Jonathan?"

There was a long, low sigh. It had an inflection of peace to it, of quiet pleasure. "I'm thinking about crystals, Tetch."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Surely, a man of science such as yourself understands. The perfect order, the perfect stability, the construction of an intricate lattice of bonds and the eternal beauty of the subatomic dance. Far be it for me to be so consumed by principles of the makeup of matter—I am a psychologist, not a chemist, of course. But isn't there something soothing about that sharp idea of organization?"

"Crane, you're waxing poetic," Jervis said. This was becoming worrying. "'Say what you mean and mean what you say.' Both please, since one isn't the same as the other."

The "snk" noise came again.

"You've used an axe before, haven't you, Tetch?"

Oh dear. How embarrassing. The night in the card maze with Alice flashed through his mind in quixotic, murky recollection…quite a lot of that evening, and even most the subsequent weeks' events had been blocked out, since the night before was such a much more wonderful memory.

More clearly recalled was the terrible faux pas at the last royal croquet match when he commented that the queen's new favorite blade was looking just perfect against the summer weather, only to be informed that this was her winter weapon. Dr. Leland told him that this had not actually happened, but he was rather sure it had, at least to him.

"Rarely. I don't like the weight and it seems rather barbaric. The queen prefers it more than I do."

"Quite."

"Why do you ask?"

There was a loud noise down the hall, and Jervis instantly closed his eyes and went limp. Barely daring to breathe, he listened as the footsteps of a passing guard slammed through the hall. A door shut at the other end of the gallery, and he counted out eighty seconds before daring to whisper again.

"Why do you ask?" he repeated, more a shaped exhale than an actual sentence.

"I had thought you would appreciate an axe more. The sharpness, so clean and clinical, appeals to me tonight. There's a certain loveliness to metal that I've not really thought about until just now. Not all metal, mind you; although quite sharp, tin cans are so horribly vulgar, don't you think?"

"Crane?" By the butter, he hoped he was wrong as to where this was going.

"Much like crystals, metals. Just so well-made. I appreciate good craftsmanship; it's why I make my toxin all from scratch. But the tangibility of a blade is something to be craved."

"Crane, put the knife down."

"It's not a knife, Tetch. Our Bolton just happens to keep quite cuspate letter openers on his desk. You'd think he would be more careful."

"Don't do this, Jonathan. Not now, when he'll know he won."

"It is deeply tiresome." There might have been more, but a sound that was suspiciously like a sob choked Crane off.

Jervis was beginning to panic; he'd always been an awkward man and he'd never had just the right words to use in troubling situations. He would sooner allow Jonathan cut himself open and bleed on the floor than call for help, since the poor psychologist would just be forced to endure worse treatment afterwards. It amazed Jervis that so chilly and reclusive a person (even more aloof than Jervis himself, it seemed) could be so strongly affected by the situation they were in now. Did it remind him of the years of bullying he'd mentioned in group therapy? Perhaps. Of course, psychoanalyzing the Master of Fear was not the main order of business now; the important thing was to try to keep the man from killing himself. After all, without at least one close acquaintance (maybe even "friend"), Jervis' own life would become even more horrid.

What to say? Tetch had only had to talk Crane down from this kind of thing once before, when Jonathan had returned from evening meal with a broken ankle and the chosen method had been the professor's own chains, looped from God-knows-where, in a metal noose. At that time, he'd been able to appeal to Crane's sense of vengeance. But what could he use now? It'd been months and the professor was becoming more and more tired each day.

Oh, how he wished Alice was here. She would exactly what to say, what to do; why, her very presence and her sweet voice would probably take any man down from the peak of desperation to down against the bosom of serenity. They'd just had a conversation over tea on the croquet grounds right before his embarrassing mistake—he'd been worried about the March Hare's anxiety despite the warming weather of April. She'd told him not to worry at all, that everything would soon be well. She'd suggested that the March Hare take a holiday, which had sounded like such a good idea.

"Don't stain such a thing with blood, Crane," Jervis finally said, deciding to offer Alice's advice. "Hide it and use it to get out."

"It is unlikely that there is any way out at all."

"So stab yourself once they catch you trying, of course. But don't sentence until you reach a verdict. It might be simpler, but it only works with backwards time."

They sat in companionable silence for a long time.

Jervis was nearly dozing off when the March Hare spoke. "Perhaps you have a point."

"Mm."

A brutal chuckle came through. "Go to bed, Tetch."

"'I breathe when I sleep, I sleep when I breathe.'"

Jervis dreamed that the caterpillar was smoking him alive, like tobacco, in his hooka. Trapped in a clear-glass water pipe, he watched as the Queen of Hearts approached the mushroom, laughing in Lyle Bolton's voice and clutching a pair of lucky hare's feet. In the Queen's other hand was a bloody scalp with long blonde hair still attached. Alice was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Jonathan was still alive at breakfast, so perhaps Jervis' reasoning had been successful.

Hopefully this wouldn't have to happen again for a few more weeks. Tetch was having enough trouble with himself. His own walls were looking more and more appropriate for self-bludgeoning as every day passed.

* * *

A/N: Somebody tell me if I threw Jonathan all out of whack; I'm kind of hoping I nailed him, but give me a heads-up. I figure that the Bolton era was the hardest on him, since it calls to mind all other times he'd been bullied in his life. If I were in his position, heck, you wouldn't be reading this: I'd have already dispatched myself. I think Johnny's the type of guy who would rely on dreams of vengeance to keep him going, but that can fade with desperation.

Also: I'm setting this during Lyle Bolton's time in Arkham as the security chief, obviously, but I'm setting it after Worry Men as well. Jervis' last notable crime was in that episode, so afterwards seems like a logical point to start to heal. I figure that Jervis' failure to retire in that episode BUT his willingness to do so indicates that he's on some type of road to recovery. After his poor self got thrown back in the slammer, I imagine that this is the ideal time for him to try and make a new life for himself. Besides, I like Jervis the Sane as much as I like Jervis the Mad, so...there you are.

And, yes, because I am a hopelessly obsessed shipper, Alice will show up in due time; and Bolton will pay our Jervis a visit before you know it.

I promise I'm not slacking off on Waiting on the Shingle...I'm just searching for a new topic to write about. It'll come, eventually, although suggestions will be taken into consideration.


	2. Morning Hours

The inmates of Arkham were awoken at 5:30 AM, when the massive overheard lights winked on and a guard made a circuit of the corridor and smashed a baton across the door of each cell.

"Rise and shine, freaks!"

Jervis fumbled blindly for his hat, eyes tightly closed against the searing light. Belatedly, he remembered that his hat had been confiscated. Growling a little bit at the bad start to the morning, he shoved himself up into a sitting position and rubbed his face with his hands. By the queen, he missed that hat. The last vestige of civilization ripped from his grip; the last reminder of something greater than Arkham, the last marker of individuality. He pressed his knuckles against his closed eyes and tried to wake up.

'At least they didn't catch me slipping Alice's Adventures in Wonderland under the mattress,' he thought as he stretched. He felt last night's stress and insomnia up in between his shoulder blades, right across the sheets of muscle that had bothered him when he still worked at Wayne Industries. When he still worked with Alice…

"Hey Tetch!" The baton slammed against his cell once more and the guard opened the window in his door. "You got forty seconds! Get up and get out here, or you'll be late for the tea party, Hat!" The guard walked away, spinning his baton and laughing at his own wit.

'It's White Rabbit who is late for croquet, not the Mad Hatter for tea. Imbecile.' Besides, he hadn't had a good cup of tea in nearly four months. The inmates were not allowed to have caffeine and he wouldn't have been able to request some if they did.

Jervis shook his head and creaked to his feet, knees throwing in their lot with his back. 'Ow.' He felt particularly old today, although he was still a reasonably-healthy middle aged man. Maybe he was still working out the bruises from the beating he took a week ago. Whatever the reason, he found himself moving stiffly today. He stretched once more and began to make for the cell door.

Looking up, he saw through the opened window that Lyle Bolton was waiting to greet him. Jervis was rooted to the spot where he stood and felt himself begin to shake.

"So, Mr. Tetch," the man said through the bars, more menacing because of his mocking formality than the guards were with their idle threats. A large hand rested over the taser gun clipped to his belt. "Are you _feeling_ well today?"

"Y-yes sir."

"Oh really? Because you're the last one out of your cell today. Don't you think that's a little…odd?"

"I'm just moving a little slow today."

"A little slow. Well, if you're sure that's all it is. We won't want you to feel poorly, would we, Mr. Tetch?" Although the malice and taunting tone was still in the security chief's voice, the man slid open the door. Jervis kept his eyes on Bolton's shoes, scarcely believing his luck. Had abusing Crane sated Bolton's immediate appetite for sadism? This might turn out to be a better day than he planned.

He advanced toward the cell door a little faster this time, bravely looking at the level of Bolton's knees as the huge man stepped back a bit.

Jervis glanced at the cell door, noticing with some confusion that it hadn't been pulled open quite far enough for him to get through. Lifting a chained hand, he put his palm to the metal to nudge it further open, risking a look at Bolton's neck.

Too late, he saw the remote control in the security chief's hand. 'Oh please, no.' His eyes widened desperately and he barely had time to react before…

The pain came up through his arm, feeling as though it should be crushed up against his chest. He gritted his teeth as the shock zinged up through his palm into his arm, sparking off pain like a gunshot at his elbow as it reached toward his shoulder. Someone screamed—later he would find out that it was him. Eyes wide open, he saw Bolton smirk as the electricity coursed through his body and flung him back into his cell, leaving him feeling as if he'd been kicked by a horse.

The reeking stench of burnt flesh reached his nostrils as he lay on the floor, writhing and shaking from aftershocks. He fought his way through a few flashes of light and color to look down at his burnt palm, and was nauseated to see that it was smoking from the wound. Desperately trying to get his breath back, Jervis clumsily ran his tongue over his teeth to be sure that he hadn't broken them in the clench. He wondered if everyone had seen him get electrocuted and felt absurdly embarrassed at the idea.

Over the ringing in his ears, he heard Bolton roaring at him.

"The next time you're told to get you, _you get up_! Understand, you son of a bitch? You don't get to choose! I'm in charge here, not you!" Jervis felt a blow to his stomach and cried out as Bolton removed his foot. "Don't let it happen again!"

He stayed on the concrete floor, staring out the glass window long after he heard the slam of his cell door. He thought he saw Harleen give him a sympathetic glance as she passed, but he fainted before he could check.

Later, an orderly came by and tended to his hand. Jervis had missed breakfast entirely.

* * *

Recreational time did not exist as it had before Bolton. The inmates were allowed ten minutes of exercise on the track; because of the security chief's preference for speed and efficiency, this was usually spent rapidly sprinting under threat of punishment. Wesker had a hard time with this particular part of the day, no doubt because of the wooden dummy on his arm; he was frequently Bolton's chosen victim for the exercise period. These days, Scarface didn't have much to say to anyone, which was a small blessing.

Jervis was not exempted from the exercise, which surprised no one but worried nearly everybody; it seemed that they would have no relief themselves if they were ever harmed. His legs refused to work properly, but he managed to get around the track at least once without collapsing.

After exercise, the inmates were lead back to their cells, where they would wait for a turn to use the institution's showers. This process was completed with the same rapid efficiency and psychological torture as was everything else. Each inmate was allotted ten minutes in the facility and five minutes' worth of water; one had to get wet, turn off the water, soap up, turn on the water, and rinse. Although Bolton didn't play favorites very often for this portion of the day, he had been known to send Harleen back to her cell with shampoo bubbles still in her hair, claiming she had exceeded the allotment.

By this time, it was barley nine o'clock in the morning. It would be at least a half an hour before any one could have an appointment with a doctor. This time was spent by each inmate in a cell, waiting quietly. On Bolton's days off, the orderlies would sometimes allow them books or magazines to pass the time.

Today was not one of those days.

Jervis sat back against the iron headboard of his bed, not daring to dream of reaching down to pick up Alice in Wonderland. He could imagine what Bolton would do to his precious book, but preferred not to.

Instead, he slipped into a daydream.

* * *

_Spattered sunlight filtered down through the tree's leaves as the party sat at the table and took the fresh summer air, colored as it was with the distant voices of the singing flowers. He was in his top hat, suit, and big bow tie and was swirling the tea around in his cup as he defended his idea._

_"Well, you can say what you like, but my point remains."_

_"It does not!" The March Hare's nose twitched sullenly as it voiced its disagreement._

_"Oh? And why not?"_

_"Because my saying something changes the nature of the something already said!"_

_"Bah! Contrariwise, your saying something doesn't change a blasted thing about the something-already-said that was before the other something because the starting point remains!"_

_"But that's preposterous!"_

_"But that's my point!"_

_"But what about the addition of my something?"_

_"Inconsequential."_

_"Oh, is it!"_

_"Could I please have a cup of tea?" Alice had her smiling face cupped in both hands and was watching the conversation like a tennis match._

_"Certainly, my dear," he said. The March Hare paused in the argument long enough to pass him the orange and fuchsia teapot (a personal favorite). He ladled out exactly 48 teaspoons' worth of tea into a cup and sent it down the line to the blonde girl sitting four seats down._

_Having accomplished the mission of chivalry, he was prepared to return to his argument with the March Hare when he looked down into his own tea cup. He wrinkled his nose and stood abruptly._

_"My cup is filthy. I shall need a fresh one! Everyone move down four places!"_

_Alice put down her teacup with a sigh and had barely gained her feet when the March Hare shoved her down along the table, the Dormouse in tow. Holding his Hat to his head, he followed the procession in quick step. Once he reached his new seat, he was delighted to find a freshly poured cup of tea waiting for him._

_Alice, who was now sitting across from him, looked a bit put out, but just let another sigh take to the air. She had been acting a bit odd today, not at all like she had behaved at the croquet grounds. Then, she had been so much more ladylike—but perhaps tea time brought out a more playful side. "Are you saying that if where you started still exists, then whatever happens as you go along doesn't matter?"_

_"Quite," he said, raising his cup in salute to her._

_"Oh, but that's nonsense!" Alice replied._

_"Hear, hear!" cried the Hare, clearly pleased to have someone take his side._

_"I dare say it is not," he replied darkly, into his teacup._

_The girl laughed. "But surely you know that everything changes!"_

_"Not around here, it doesn't," he replied triumphantly, having found the hole in her argument. "It's always tea time, don't you know."_

_"Don't get on to that again," Alice said, picking up a teapot. "Everything changes sometime, Jervis."_

_Jervis?_

_"What?" he asked. "Or, perhaps, who?"_

_"Why, you, of course."_

_"I, dear girl, am the Hatter."_

_Alice raised a blonde eyebrow. "Oh, do speak sense. You're Jervis. Ands, to end the conversation, the point is that everything changes. I mean, just look at you!" She pointed a finger directly at his chest._

_Looking down, he found his coat, tie, and shirt missing. He was wearing a grey uniform and one hand was bandaged._

_The March Hare laughed._

* * *

Jervis surfaced from the daydream with a start. How strange! Such a thing had never happened in Wonderland before!

He curled into the fetal position on his cot. What was going on?

* * *

A/N: Whew! A little creepy there, I hope. Or maybe it was goofy. Whatever you prefer.

Bolton's such a cretin. Electrical burns HURT. That jerk.


	3. Eventime

Each inmate in Arkham had one private session with a doctor once a day and a group therapy session three times a week. These days, the hours in therapy were considered golden. It did not escape the notice of the Rogue Gallery that there was a certain irony in a villain eagerly awaiting a chance to confess anything, everything, to a psychiatrist. But every moment one was not in Bolton's hands was a moment to be treasured.

In the beginning, there had been some brave souls who had complained of Bolton's treatment. When an inspection was made, Bolton's magnificent acting skills won the confidence of the administration. For whichever inmate talked, however, he designed a much less civil demonstration to encourage them that nothing at all was the matter, performed the night of the complaint. Apparently, Nygma still had a scar on his collarbone from his experience.

Ordinarily, Jervis was pleased to be out of his cell and advancing away from Bolton's domain. Today, however, he found that he had no desire to say anything to anyone. His daydream had disturbed him deeply, which would have been excellent conversation fodder if he'd actually wanted to extend his meeting with Dr. Leland.

Eventually, the good doctor wheedled out the reason for his depression and silence. After hearing all that Jervis had to say, she wrote down a few notes and launched into her "disassociation with reality" lecture.

"You must remember what and where reality is, Mr. Tetch. The real world around you is Arkham Asylum, not Wonderland. It is imperative to the improvement of your mental health that you maintain focus and lucidity throughout your day. The temptation to fantasize must be overcome. Fortunately, as you make a habit of rejecting fantasy, you will find that it becomes easier and easier to abstain.

"Until then, focus on the real world and avoid the lure of distraction."

"Yes, doctor." He'd heard this dozens of times before.

"Also, Mr. Bolton told me about the fight you got in this morning with Mr. Jones," the doctor said, gesturing at his hand. "I am disappointed, Mr. Tetch. I thought you had been improving…that aside, is there anything else you need to talk about today?"

The answer had been a decided "no."

* * *

The inmates were escorted to afternoon and evening meals at twelve noon and five o'clock. Mealtimes were another break, although there was some variety in the freedoms they afforded.

If Bolton's day had been especially unsatisfying, he would call for a silent meal or would send one inmate in at a time, granting them fifteen minutes to gather food, eat it, and leave. Today, however, found him in jolly spirits. He just monitored the perimeter of the room for the hour, idly slapping his baton against his hand and smirking his favorite smirk.

Jervis fumbled with his tray, balancing it as best he could on one hand to relieve the other of the pressure. Crane, sitting across from Harleen, glanced up at him.

"Take a seat, Tetch." Jervis nodded his thanks and slid into place beside the professor. Wesker was sitting beside Harleen, feeding meatloaf to Mr. Scarface. Waylon Jones was attempting to consume a sandwich that seemed almost comically small in his monstrous grip and Nygma was staring into the depths of his soup, sighing quietly to himself and prodding the liquid with a straw.

"You all right, Jervis?" Harleen asked, looking depressed.

"Quite well, Miss Quinzelle. Kind of you to ask."

"Yeah, who'd'a thought?"

They ate quietly. Scarface grumbled about his willingness to kill for a cigar.

Jervis looked around as he pushed cucumbers around on his plate. "Where is Mr. Dent?"

"Solitary," Crane said.

"Why ever would he be there?"

"Oh, take a wild guess," the other man replied with a brief glance at Bolton. "Somebody tried to relieve him of his coin."

Jervis grimaced and shook his head sadly. "Is he all right?"

"Am I his keeper?" Crane responded. The skeletal man looked incredibly tense, so Jervis dropped the subject, only for Harleen to come in on the rebound.

"Yeah, he's all wrapped up and sedated, but he's still breathin'. I saw them shuffling him over to talk to one of the docs."

Jervis nodded briefly and resumed eating. It seemed that there was nothing else to say.

* * *

Evenings could be the best or the worst time of the day. For one thing, it was the end of a horrible day, a period of time where one did not have to do anything more than lie on one's bed and relax. There were hours of reprieve from the petty cruelties of the day, time to heal and console oneself.

Alternatively, one could be forced to endure the boredom, loneliness, and suffocating length of the night, still uneasy because of the possibility of a surprise meeting with Bolton. Those hours of relief could quickly become an unendurable time, spent waiting for the inevitable dawning of a new day and the repetition of the horrors of life in Arkham.

Tonight was to be a mix.

* * *

Jervis knew that the chances of Bolton visiting him tonight were significantly lower than they were yesterday; he had already been punished today. To a certain extent, Bolton's viciousness this morning surprised him. Jervis tried to be well-behaved and quiet and as a result didn't receive much attention from any guards at all. While he pitied Crane that he was Bolton's favorite victim, he felt a macabre envy of the attention the professor received. Jervis didn't want to be tortured, of course, but to be simply ignored implied that he was not even worth the expense the effort to notice him enough for him to be targeted. The whole situation reeked of his childhood, when it was not so much that he was a victim of bullying as that he was a victim of negligence—he had been the child who could've died abruptly without anyone noticing at all.

He had always been invisible, more ghost than man ('grin than cat' his mind supplied, and he squished the thought quickly), until…until Alice appeared in his life.

Why must he dwell on her? Oh, she must hate him now; of that much he was certain. How he should love to be able to return the favor; how he should love to wish for her to suffer the way he suffered! How he wanted to hope to see her twist in agony, to crave her screams.

It would make everything so much easier if he could just hate her! But he could not.

He'd tried. He'd tried so hard to stop loving her. Once, in his desperation, he'd tried to convince himself that he wanted revenge--he'd spit words about her death at his hands into the air.

That night in his cell, ashamed and horrified by what he'd said, he begged the Alice in his head for forgiveness, pleading with her to understand his grief and anger at himself and at the world around him. _I didn't mean it, please, it just came out, forgive me, my darling, please forgive me_…

Since that night, every time he tried to imagine some punishment for her, some retribution for his poor scarred heart, he started to feel sick. Bile rose in his throat and tears stung his eyes; he found himself suddenly distraught by the idea that anything or anyone would hurt her. He wished to fly to her side and protect her from the world, and from himself.

There was no pleasure in thoughts of her in pain, only guilt, fury, sorrow, and, yes, even terror. What would Jonathan Crane say if he knew that Jervis feared misfortune falling upon Alice Pleasance? It was laughably pathetic; a madman still in love with his victim.

He frequently met her in his daydreams in Wonderland, a real woman instead of Carroll's child-Alice; he saw her long skirts dancing around her legs as her hands reached for him to bring him along with her, her blonde hair trailing behind her like the banner of a goddess. They spent long summer days blowing smoke rings in the Mushroom Valley; lying, limbs entwined, on the soft warm earth, watching the sky pass overhead. He imagined afternoon tea parties and suppers under the stars, imagined dancing in one another's arms all night to the songs of the flowers. He imagined sighs and soft kisses and a hundred thousand embraces that could never happen.

He dreamed of her in the doctor's reality as well, recalling her smiles and her laughter, her gentle embraces and her rapturous beauty. He dreamed of seeing again the tilt of her head as she listened intently to every word that fell from his mouth, of the scent he could smell on her skin when she'd lean in close beside him to try to understand what he was doing.

He even dreamed of what it would like to be with her if he were her husband—nights spent in the kitchen together; cooking, talking, dancing, reading; the gentle teasing and easy give-and-take that had made up their conversations. Being with her and near her forever, loving and loved by the woman who made him feel like he was a real person. Making love to her, worshipping her, being worshipped by her. Growing old with her. Dying with her.

It was such a beautiful dream, such an impossible dream. How he wished he could ignore it! She put him here; it was her fault, hers…

He stared at the ceiling and felt his eyes fill. He closed his eyes and saw her face in his mind's eye.

How long could he pretend? How long could he avoid the truth? Hadn't he announced it himself at that mad trial they'd all held in the asylum? Alice was no more responsible for his fate than Batman. Perhaps if he'd simply said it, simply told her outright that he was in love with her—why, everything might have been different.

He hadn't.

It wasn't.

He was alone and it was his fault.

* * *

The lights were still on when Nygma's scream from down the hall awoke him. He hadn't known he was asleep.

"Don't! Please don't! I can't think with them! Please, I--!"

'Sedatives.' Edward particularly despised being sedated; they made the Riddler's mind move sluggishly and slowly, a terrible fate for a man who prided himself on rapid thought, easy understanding, and his ability to always be a step ahead.

"It doesn't matter! I just don't want… Please, I swear I'll just—no! NO!"

The needle must have hit home, as the cries stopped after that. Jervis wondered what poor Nygma had done to incur the wrath of the orderlies; the last time this had happened, he'd requested a book of puzzles. The Riddler hadn't asked the orderlies for a thing after that. Jervis hadn't seen him with a puzzle in three weeks and knew the man must be half-mad from withdrawal alone. Had he requested a book from a doctor? If he'd received it and Bolton had seen it, the man was lucky all they did was sedate him.

Punishments were harsh here.

Jervis twitched his eyes up and over to glance at Crane through the glass window. After a moment, the dozing professor lifted his own eyelids and shook his head minutely, a look of disgust on his face.

The footsteps of the guards faded into white noise.

Soon, silence reclaimed its rightful place: god in Arkham. Silence was a strong god, who kept a cruel king on his throne.

* * *

A/N: Okay, this is the chapter I'm nervous about. Is it too overdone? Is it okay? I'm a little worried.

I promise Alice will show up soon. The next chapter will probably be partially comprised of the first Alice/Jervis snippet I ever wrote, so that will be fun.


	4. Day's Dawn

She dreamt.

"_Oh, Billy!" Throwing herself against her boyfriend, Alice sighed with relief. How terrible it would have been for something to have happened to him! And how wonderful it was to feel her own strength, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. No more sitting helplessly, watching her friends get hurt, for her. But…what about—_

_Turning her head, she spied Jervis beneath the claws of his Jabberwocky, groaning slightly. Gasping, she wrenched her arms away and ran towards him. What if he was hurt, or was lying there dying? The Batman stood to one side, but made a grab for her as she passed. Ducking beneath his arms, she flew to her friend and employer and dropped to her knees beside him._

"_Jervis! Jervis, are you all right? Are you hurt?" she asked, touching his face gently. He looked up at her with the saddest, guiltiest, most shocked expression she had ever seen. He didn't seem to be bleeding or too badly hurt on his torso, she found with relief, but he didn't move his arms._

"_Alice!" admonished Batman, at almost the same instant as her boyfriend. A black-covered hand wrapped around her wrist, restraining her, and she looked tremblingly into the black mask. _

"_But what if he's hurt?" she responded, trying to tug her wrist back. The grip held and she looked back down at Jervis. "You're not hurt, are you?" Billy came after his girlfriend now and stared at her, his mouth agog in disbelief._

"_I…I'm…" Jervis looked like he might burst into tears at any moment. "You can't… n-not after-"_

_It was Alice herself who cried first. The tears rose up, sudden and unbidden, and ran down her face in twin streams. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…Jervis, I'm so…"_

"_What?" the madman whispered, staring up at her with disbelieving, terrified blue eyes._

"_I didn't know—you never said…I thought you were just…" She choked, sobbing. "How could you do this, Jervis? Why couldn't you have just t-told me? If I'd known…oh…it might have been…"_

"_Alice." Now Batman was investing in the conversation, and he pulled her wrist gently.  
"Come away. He's a dangerous man."_

"_Please," she said, "I just w-want to make sure he's not hurt." She gazed back down at her friend. "Are you all right?" _

_Behind her, Billy snorted. "Alice…"_

"_I'm…I am afraid I'm quite mim--" Alice could see the word "mimsy" on his lips, and didn't know if she should be relieved or disappointed. Instead, she interrupted him._

"_Please, Jervis," she murmured. "No Lewis Carroll now. Please. Just be you?"_

_Apparently Batman had had enough by this point, and he carefully eased Alice back up onto her feet and passed her over to her boyfriend, who wrapped his arms around her. Alice faced Jervis, her reddening eyes on him; pity, grief, and concern mingled in her gaze._

"_What he's done tonight probably qualifies him for Arkham," Batman said, grimly. "There, he'll get the help he needs. In time," now a glare at the defeated man, "he can be rehabilitated."_

_Jervis slumped, all of the strength that was keeping him upright withering away from him suddenly. He murmured quietly, barely audible. "Yes…yes, of course…Arkham," the last word was a gasp, as if it were too terrible a fate to speak with his full voice. _

_He painfully tilted his head to look at Alice. "I will go into the den of the Jabberwocky for you, Alice." _

_Alice wilted in Billy's arms. "Please, don't do anything more for me. You did all this for me, and now you have to suffer for it!" She seemed anguished by the injustice. "Please, get better for yourself, Jervis."_

_Finally, the echo of police sirens could be heard from far down the street. Biting her lip, Alice turned to Batman.  
_

"_Could I please stay with him? Until they take him away?"_

_The vigilante paused for a long moment, glaring at Jervis. Grudgingly, he said, "I'll be nearby."_

_In a moment, he was gone._

_Alice pulled away from her stunned fiancé's grasp and knelt down once again, placing her palm gently on top of her Hatter's gloved hand. _

_There they stayed until the police came._

* * *

She awoke slowly, her pillow wet beneath her cheek. One hand had clenched a fistful of white sheets and if she blurred her vision, she could just pretend it was a hand.

Again, the dream. She lifted her watery eyes to the sunlight coming through the cobwebby curtains over the windows and watched the dust motes. The dream of what she should've done, what she wished she had done, what she would've done if she weren't weak and pathetic. At the time, she'd just wanted someone to hold her and take care of it all for her. She hadn't wanted to see the heartbreak in his eyes, hadn't wanted to deal with it.

This woman was beautiful in her lonely, sunlit bed, her head resting on the blanket of light that grew from her scalp. Her skin was stained with teartrails, borne from her grieving heart in its slumber. She was lying on her side, her legs scissored in a pantomime leap, her sparkling body covered in cool linen sheets.

She did not feel beautiful. She was a wretch, cruel and stupid. And now, she was alone.

Oh, her dear friend. What had she done to so disturb him? What could she do to apologize?

One slender arm raised her up and within reaching distance of the telephone on her bedside table. She placed the receiver against her ear and fell back onto her pillow, fingers spinning the rotary dial through the combination of numbers that made up the telephone number she'd memorized from constant calls.

* * *

Dr. Leland was speaking with one of the orderlies in her office when her telephone rang.

"Excuse me," she said as she took the call.

"Oh, yes, hello again…well, there have been some developments…perhaps, Ms. Pleasance. I can't discuss anything about it now, but if I could call you back? Yes, I have the number. Yes, I will hurry. No; I won't…yes, you have my assurance. Yes. No, don't worry. Yes. Good morning to you as well, Ms. Pleasance."

The orderly raised an eyebrow at the doctor.

"Concerned friend."

They continued their conversation.

* * *

Lyle Bolton took one day out of every seven days off. There was no predictable pattern to his leave days; one could not anticipate their arrival, as he occasionally chose to forego them completely.

This was a leave day, the best day for the inmates.

Magazines and books were distributed, conversation was allowed—sometimes, they were even permitted to while away some hours in the recreation room, as they had in the years before Bolton's arrival.

Jervis had drawn his copy of Alice in Wonderland from beneath his mattress and was clinging to it as a shipwrecked man to wood. Even the presence of the book calmed his mind and helped him steady himself. He worshipped the volume for a few moments, tracing the golden letters, smoothing the cool spine through his hand once or twice, smelling the binding of the pages and caressing the smooth tooth of the pages. His beautiful book! His tiny spark of light in a world of darkness.

It had been a gift.

* * *

_He didn't know quite what to expect when he opened his door, but it wasn't this._

_Alice Pleasance stood before him, radiant as ever in a red dress he had never seen before. A little fancy for everyday working clothes, it dropped in a neckline mid-way down her chest and revealed her smooth skin, shapely shoulders, and delicate collarbones. The fabric of the small cap-sleeves was ruffled, as was the hemline of the skirt at her knees. The bodice, a fitted affair with princess seams, was interrupted by a white ribbon around her waist, introducing the loose skirt below. She had a bit of poinsettia in her hair and, in one hand, a cup of something cream-colored and milky. The other hand held a wrapped rectangle, topped with another white bow._

_It vaguely occurred to him that he ought to close his mouth before she could see that he was practically salivating. His jaw rose and teeth connected with an audible 'click.'_

"_Merry Christmas, Jervis!" Alice smiled, holding the cup out for him. "I know you said you weren't going to the party, so I brought a bit of the party to you!"_

"_A-Alice! Er, thank you. Won't you come in?" he took the cup and moved few steps back. The blonde woman smiled and entered the office, the fragrance of mint and vanilla accompanying her arrival. As Jervis closed the door, he could hear the sounds of laughter and music down the hall. _

"_Have you been all right back here, all alone?" Alice asked, placing her package on the counter and leaning back against the table._

"_Oh, yes, I don't mind the solitude. Are you enjoying the party?" He sipped the drink and Alice wrinkled her nose._

"_It's sort of fun, but I can see why you didn't want to go. It's a little too noisy for me; beside, there's no one to dance with." She brightened up. "But! Let's do something more interesting!" She picked up the package again and came over to stand at his elbow. "Open your present."_

_He startled, surprised by her closeness, and swallowed his drink quickly. "For me? How very kind! You oughtn't have, Alice." She'd think he was an absolute cad before the hour was over! He'd searched for a present for her, but never found just the right one: this was too mundane, that was too personal. He couldn't find a thing that would show her the depth of his regard without being a grossly inappropriate employer-employee gift. He couldn't even find something that she would really like, that would really make an impression on her._

"_Don't be silly, Jervis; of course I would get you a present! I just hope you like it." He would love anything she gave him, from hard-boiled egg to mome rath. "Now, open it!" He gulped down his worry and began._

_Carefully undoing the bow, Jervis fastidiously unknotted the ribbon and slid it from the package. Alice watched on in amusement as he slowly lifted the Scotch tape and unfolded the wrapping._

_The festive paper parted to reveal a beautiful hardcover book, oversized and red, with embossed gold letters reading "The Annotated Alice." His breath stolen, he mutely brushed his fingers over the cover in reverence._

"_It's all right, isn't it? I know you must have a copy already, but I didn't know if you had the annotated version…do you like it?" Jervis looked at his secretary as she worried a lip between her teeth, her fingers twiddling as she watched him hold the book._

"_It's beautiful. I love it." He couldn't even be bothered to worry that his voice could give him away. "Thank you, Alice." Her lovely face parted in a smile of utter joy and he suddenly felt as if he'd been shot through the heart._

"_I'm so glad you like it. I wanted it to be really special."_

"_It is. It's absolutely frabjous, Alice, and I mean it with all my heart." The woman let out a little sparkle of a laugh and placed a hand on his shoulder, her beauty and scent engulfing him for a moment._

"_Merry Christmas, Jervis." He smiled slightly and placed his hand over her own, relishing her warmth and closeness for a moment before sighing._

"_My dear, your gift is so beautiful. I thank you one thousand times over, but…to my embarrassment, I have nothing for you. I tried to find something, but…I must beg you to accept my--"_

_She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, don't worry! I don't need anything at all! I'm just glad that you enjoyed your gift…your expression was enough."_

"_But, Alice, I'm taking advantage of your kindness…"_

"_You're not taking advantage of me, not at all. But…you really want to give me a gift, Jervis?" She looked at him with smiling eyes._

"_Of course, my dear." He had to stop himself from adding 'anything your heart desires.' Not exactly professional._

"_All right. I know just what I want." She took the book from him and placed it on the counter, then held his hands in hers and began to lead him toward the door. "You have to come with me, and dance with me."_

"_D-dancing?"_

"_Yes, dancing. You do know how, don't you?" She opened the door and pulled him out first and closed the door behind him. She took his arm and brought him toward the party noise. "If you don't, we can just sway."_

"_Well, I know a very little bit, but it's been several years…and in front of the entire office?" Alice glanced at him with an amused expression. _

"_You don't need to be embarrassed! Nobody's looking to make a fuss. Just one dance and then you can go right back to work, if you like." Jervis hesitated for a moment and caved._

"_Anything you wish, Alice." She grinned at him and opened the doors, just as the next song began to play. He attempted to rest a hand on her shoulder, but she brought it down to her waist. He could feel the softness of her dress and the warmth of the skin beneath; he tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere as he lifted their closed hands and began to waltz the woman in his arms around to the best of his abilities. A few times he nearly froze under a mislaid step, but Alice would just smile and squeeze his hand, and on they would go._

_Soon, he didn't even notice that there were others around—it even escaped him that most of them were watching the dance with shocked eyes. It did not matter that she was his secretary, or that he was her employer, or that he didn't stand a chance. All that mattered was the whirl of light and color attached to his hand that, when brought back into his grasp, magically became the smiling woman of his dreams. _

_For the first time in his life, he was in love._

_Perhaps he would stay for a few more dances._

* * *

He smiled sadly at the memory and opened his book to read, the faintest trace scent of mint in the pages.

Meanwhile, Crane was discreetly fiddling with the letter opener beneath his stiff hospital pillow. Soon.

* * *

A/N: Is it incongrously fluffy in the midst of an angsty story? Why...yes. Yes it is. Thank you for noticing. It is also flashback-intensive. Many italics. Technically, the second flashback was supposed to be a Waiting on the Shingle story, but I decided I liked it here. I'll still do something having to do with Christmas. It'll be great. I think.

I decided everybody needed a break. Plus, now Alice is involved, so at least now my character summary is true.


	5. Impossible Things

"Tetch!"

Why is it the guards had such a fascination with monosyllabic words? It would be nice to be referred to as "Jervis" or "Mr. Tetch," just for variety. He missed being called "Mr. Tetch" in the way one missed a particular water pressure in a shower—the comfortable, correct, "right way" things were or "ought" to be. Unnoticed until it was it was gone or changed, it influenced one's entire perception of an otherwise identical situation.

"Hey, Tetch! Pay attention!"

Oh, he should speak up, now. The guard sounded exasperated, and exasperation could easily mean a broken rib.

"Yes, sir?"

"You got a visitor. Get up!"

A visitor? What manner of nonsense was this? He had no family, no friends, no one to want to come and see him. Jervis Tetch was forgotten to the world outside these walls, remembered only as the Mad Hatter: a loony (perhaps), a kidnapper (well, yes), and a rapist (absolutely not; he'd sooner chop his own limbs off than think of it).

The guard snapped off his chains and led him, unresisting, out of his cell with a bit more force than necessary. Jervis winced but made no sound. Jonathan raised an enquiring eyebrow at Tetch as they passed.

"Got something to say, Professor?" the guard said in a cruel voice. Crane's eyes widened and a small tremor ran through him.

"No, sir," the psychologist responded, his voice tight but clamped down on any hatred, the tone of which could lead this informer of Bolton to send the security chief over for an "interview."

In the next cell, Harleen was pressed against the wall she shared with the cell that had been reserved for Pamela, as if trying to leech off the stone's memory of the other woman. It was only a matter of time until the redhead got caught and Arkham always kept a designated cell for each of its permanent residents. Harleen looked poorly today, her blonde hair limp and stringy and her blue eyes dim, rimmed with water. Jervis twitched his head minutely in greeting, but Harleen stared past him without a sign of recognition.

Tetch walked on.

* * *

Dr. Leland looked tense, which Jervis thought was strange, under the circumstances. He felt perfectly relaxed; in fact, he felt better than he had in several weeks. His hand still stung badly, but that was his only complaint.

"As I'm sure you've noticed, Mr. Tetch, you've improved considerably since you've been brought here. While there's still a long way to go, the behavior you've exhibited in recent sessions with me has caused me to decide that you are capable of receiving a visitor today. I'll be watching from outside the room the entire time. You must understand that, since this will be your first contact with the outside world in a year and a half, you may feel a little rusty when it comes to socializing." Had there ever been a time when he'd felt comfortable socializing? Well, with Alice… "But I'm confident that you'll do fine. You have several earmarks of successful strategies for social intercourse…for example, you've always displayed excellent manners."

"Thank you."

"And I'm sure you'll exercise them today; remember them especially when you feel nervous. Just remain calm and focus on the situation at hand. Try not to drift off or begin to disassociate with reality."

"Very well, doctor."

"Is there anything you want to ask?"

He thought for a moment. 'Why do cats grin? Why are all the clocks two days late? Why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?'

Reality. Reality. Focus.

"No, doctor."

"All right." Leland tried to muster up an encouraging smile. "Enjoy your visit."

The good doctor left out of a door on Jervis' side of the room. Across from him, there stood an unpleasant sort of straight-backed wooden chair. That was all in this room, aside the table at which he sat. This was one of the private visitation booths; at least, as private as it got. Conjugal visits were not permitted for the Rogue Gallery without very, very especial clearance.

A buzzer over the door across from Jervis sounded, and he cleared his throat nervously. He wished he'd been able to look a bit more presentable, but one had to work with what one had in Arkham.

Moments later, he was fairly certain he'd disassociated with reality.

He thought he saw Alice Pleasance was standing in the doorway, looking shy and nervous and beautiful, a handful of daffodils at her side.

* * *

Alice hadn't known what, exactly, to expect when she was finally granted permission to see Jervis. She had too many contrasting memories of him to just select one; perhaps she hoped most that he would still be her dear employer, a small smile and a nervous greeting on his mouth and the light of keen intelligence in his eyes.

When she saw him, she wanted to cry, both from relief and sorrow.

He was all in one piece, in the flesh before her. Her dear friend and confidant, the man whose absence surprised her with how keenly and constantly she felt it, sat in a small wooden chair in a small tiled room, expecting her. She could talk to him, listen to him, watch him, be watched by him, share time and space again with him.

And yet, he was not really whole. The dark circles under his eyes were so bad that they could've been bruises, his blue eyes still so crisply blue but now so pained; they belonged to a haunted man. He was too thin, thinner than she'd ever seen him before, his face grown gaunt and pale; he looked small and weak, slouching slightly. The bones in his hands stuck out beneath his skin—seemed too delicate, better suited to a bird than to a man. A touch could've broken them. She decided that he looked sick; his were wrists chained like an animal's legs, and he was dressed in gray, locked in a gray room.

Alice remembered the man he had been and felt as if her heart were breaking. She wanted to grab him by the arms and race down the hall with him, burst through the doors of the asylum and run and run, until they were practically flying, down the hill and through the gates and into Gotham city, where she could watch over him and feed him and take away this grief she saw in his face; where she could, like rescuing a dying plant, coax fresh green life and color and health out of his salted-earth shell.

She should not want to do this for the man who had kidnapped her, brainwashed her, tried to possess her as his own. She should not pin her heart on the good times that came before a night of terror and tragedy. She should not recognize this man, not see so much her beloved friend in this person who was, supposedly, more beast than human.

But, heaven help her, Alice wanted to save him, rescue him from this horrible place, bring his former self back into her life and curl up, safe, in the closeness they had once had, the closeness she had so missed, now that she was quite alone.

She didn't say any of this. The selfishness and stupidity of these thoughts overwhelmed her but could not fill the pit of sorrow in her stomach.

Her throat convulsed when he looked up at her, horror and agony and sorrow and humiliation and something-like-anger-but-not-quite…and something else, in his expression.

"Hello, Jervis."

* * *

He was a cursed man. There could be no other explanation.

Why was he destined to see her when she couldn't be there, destined to always be at his worst around her, destined to always be so clearly the loser that it could only be morbid curiosity that brought her back to him?

He instantly straightened up, as if to make a good impression, bidding for grace and dignity he knew it was futile to chase after.

"M-miss Pleasance? Are you…" This couldn't possibly be happening. Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? On the electroshock table? This was excellent practice for believing in impossible things.

She tried to answer his unfinished question.

"Yes; I think…yes?" The woman shuffled her feet slightly, still in the doorway of the room. She dropped her eyes to the floor, lifted them to look at him, slid them to the side to look at the two-way mirror, dropped them again. Alice looked so solid and so real. She couldn't really be here, could she?

"Why are you—no, excuse me." Manners. Dr. Leland told him to remember his manners. He stood up slowly, trying not to startle her. "Won't you…" '…join the dance?' "…t-take a seat?"

"O-oh. Right. Um, thank you." Alice took cautious steps approaching him, stride never faltering; her eyes darting about, constantly alert. He ached to think that she had excellent cause to be so uncomfortable around him, though her steady steps offered him some consolation—she was not wholly afraid.

They stood across from one another, separated by the table. Once Alice had the chair positioned behind her, they began their descent. Jervis' initial impulse was to go around and push in her chair for her, but he decided that his presence that close behind her would probably frighten the woman out of her wits, and this interlude would be over before it began.

He was almost convinced that, by some cruel trick of fate, his former secretary was really visiting him. She was not unchanged, but so familiar to him—the same lovely slope to her jaw, the Cupid's bow mouth, the scent of her hair had him adrift in her presence, in the hundred thousand things he'd memorized about her. At the same time, he found himself noticing new things. Her cheeks had lost some of their plush softness and her eyes, still that spectacular blue, looked sad—was it because of a new depth, time etching further fathoms into her irises? A trick of the light? A hint of darkness underneath? He wasn't quite sure.

Oh, but she was so beautiful. With speed to rival the White Rabbit's trot, he found his heart beating with that familiar ache and his hands trembled.

'You cannot possibly do this! After what she did to you; after what _you_ did to _her_! Stop it this instant!' Hot humiliation burned his face. If only he could hate her. If only he could forget her!

It was completely hopeless.

"Jervis?" she asked, startling him from his thoughts.

"O-oh! I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to…" What to say, what to say? He was completely out of his depth. This shouldn't've ever been within the realm of possibility!

"No, no, don't worry. I should've…ahem. Uh, how are you?"

'Fine, except that I'm trapped in a hellish asylum and nursing a few electrical burns, and I haven't gotten a decent night's sleep in a week because I'm up at night convincing the only friend I have here to not kill himself.' "I'm well. And you?"

"Fine. Thank you."

They sat at the table and stared at each other. He could feel her eyes on his face, absorbing details, roving over his head. Jervis would've blushed under such scrutiny if he hadn't been equally preoccupied observing her. Those blue eyes ran over his shoulders, arms, and down to his hands. He felt them twitch and jump, hiding the burns on the palm. 'Mustn't let her see. She'll think you're dangerous.'

"I guess you're wondering why I'm here," Alice ventured after a moment or two.

"It has crossed my mind as being rather curious." It was a humorless statement, but her lips twitched minutely before settling into a small, morose line once more. He didn't know what to say to that, so he ignored it.

"I missed you. I wanted to see you." Her voice was a pleasure to listen to again…he was convinced she was terrified, so he was impressed by her tone. If he had been in her shoes, he would have stumbled and trailed off, not spoken so clearly and deliberately. When the words sunk in, he practically fell out of his seat; she continued. "It's been a very long time, Jervis."

"A very long time since I kidnapped you and was arrested before your eyes?" he replied, his voice harsher than he intended as the mortification of that night washed over him afresh. She flinched and dropped her head at his disbelieving tone, and a sheet of blonde hair fell over both shoulders, shielding the sides of her face.

"Yes, but you've really suffered for it, and I've been wanting to see you. I read the story about the worry dolls a few months ago, and I've been concerned about you ever since." She stared down, facing the daffodils in her lap, tracing the faintly-sparkling petals with her fingertips. He watched the play of the light over the features he until now had only seen in his dreams and cursed himself for hurting her feelings.

"I apologize, Miss Pleasance. It is kind of you to come," Jervis murmured, his eyes now on his own hands.

"It's the least I could do."

"What ever do you mean?"

Her eyes darted back up to him, then looked off over his left shoulder. "Well…I'm sort of the reason you're here."

"Wha…n--!"

"So I guess I also came to apologize." A sigh drifted up from her shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Jervis. I don't really know what I did to make you so…upset. I know you must hate me, but I…I just…I'm so sorry."

Jervis stared at Alice, struck completely dumb. She belonged in this place even more than he did—she must be mad to think she had to apologize! ('_We're all mad here,_' his brain predictably supplied.) He almost thought to laugh aloud. Had she been agonizing over this since that night, a year ago, now? He was split down the middle: part of him horrified that she had been so upset for so long, part of him pleased that he had been a part of her daily ponderings, a part of her life even still.

"Miss Pleasance, I would accept your apology, but you have nothing to apologize for, aside from breaking a heart—accidentally, I assume," he said, catching her eyes and holding them with his. "You were the victim of that night more than I. What I did was…inexcusable." He hadn't the strength to look at her as he said this. He dropped his eyes back down to his hands, nearly whispering. "And I could never hate you. I should be at you feet asking for forgiveness."

He nearly fell in love all over again at her next words.

"I forgave you a long time ago, Jervis."

* * *

A/N: It's been a bit, hasn't it? Well, these two are now face-to-face...wonder where this will go. Frankly, I'm as in the dark as much as anyone else. But fret the not: soon Jonathan Will Have Had Quite Enough, Thank You and will proceed To Do Something About It. So it's not all just gooey, possibly unlikely romance. I promise.


	6. I Saw Nobody

"I forgave you a long time ago, Jervis."

Alice almost smiled again as she watched Jervis' reaction to her words. He looked like the world had been lifted off of him. She couldn't imagine what he must have been thinking.

She had to admit that she was feeling nearly the same way. She'd never been so nervous and scared in all her life than when she'd been waiting outside the room, imagining the worst: that he'd reject her, laugh at her, tell her that it was truly all her fault and that he hated her. She had never wanted him to be hurt or unhappy. Alice still wasn't completely sure why he did what he did—was it because of her name, or something she did? Did he just snap and needed a hostage? What obvious clue had she missed?

Why throw everything away on your secretary? It was such a horrible, pitiful waste…and he had been so brilliant. All of the newspapers had lapped up the fact that she was his secretary along with his first victim, provided the city of Gotham with grandiose theories about his motives that as frequently made her blush and cry as they did caused her to cancel her subscription. She wanted so badly to believe that it wasn't her fault, that it wasn't for something as stupid and meaningless as sex that he'd done what he'd done. It soiled the memory of the good night they had together to think that; it broke her heart to think that that was his only motivation and his only interest in her.

She watched his mouth work mutely for several moments, and felt her lips twitch once more. Alice found it soothing to see that at least part of the man she remembered was still there—this was the second time in the visit something about his mannerisms made her almost smile. She could remember when she was utterly charmed by his cautious, shy demeanor, when it had been an invitation to draw him out of his shell. His surprise at her interest had always delighted and saddened her, inspired her to do more to show her respect and affection for him.

Deciding to change the subject a bit, at least to have something to do, she gently reached out and placed the small bouquet before him.

"I hope you'll accept these," Alice said quietly, watching him stare at the flowers with startled eyes. "It's spring out there…the air's still a little cool, but all of the flowers are coming up. These are from my garden—I have a little one in the back, and I thought something fresh and cheerful might be a nice thing to bring you. You're not allergic, are you?"

He shook his head; even if he was, he would've treasured anything that came from her hand, especially since it was not a slap, the fear of which had entered his mind now and again over the course of this interview. Oh, but Alice would never do such a thing to him—she was too gentle and too, too good…

Jervis felt his heart lurch as he looked at the small bundle of blossoms set before him. He could imagine her out in a sun lit garden, a warm something wrapped around her delicate shoulders, crouching down and gently plucking daffodils off at the stem, gathering a pair of handfuls precisely for him, her thoughts directed towards him as she carried the flowers inside, cut them at a uniform length, and tied them together with a pale blue ribbon, leaving them in a vase with water until she could make her trip. Perhaps then she would put a kettle of tea on the boil and sit down to read a book or a newspaper, calm and silent, enjoying the respite from her daily life and hurry. It was such a pretty picture, such a lovely image of domesticity, one he could easily imagine himself in, sitting beside her in sweet silence, enjoying one another's presence and company.

"Jervis?"

"Hm?" he stumbled, jerking back to reality. "I…I apologize. My mind was elsewhere."

"Oh, okay," the blonde replied, and Jervis suddenly smiled at how nice it was to have someone simply take his word—to not need to explain himself or answer any uncomfortable questions.

"Then you've been minding a garden, have you? I'd not known you to do so, Alice."

"Well, I've sort of gotten into it lately…"

* * *

He was feeling wildly proud of himself when one of the guards came by to retrieve him. Alice was laughing at something he'd said, something he'd said specifically to please her—the Noble prize could not have brought him more honor and satisfaction than the trill of her laughter. They had spoken for what must have been hours but seemed like moments; Alice caught him up on many details of her life, seeming to understand without being told that his own life was a history best left untouched. Talking of everything and nothing had brought him happily back to the years they'd shared together in his office, working close at hand and thriving in one another's company. Her cheerful small talk had made him feel years younger, and a small smile creased his face even when they fell silent, every now and then.

Jervis could've cried when the guard appeared. Instead, he turned his attention to the bouquet, fingers flying over it.

"Time's up, lady—say good night, Tetch," the man grumbled, his joke falling flat. Alice's smile drooped, which would have flattered Jervis if he hadn't been distraught at the thought of her leaving.

"I'm sorry, sir…but couldn't I stay just a few—"

"Sorry, chickie, doctor's orders. Time for Jervy here to hit the concrete…and those flowers can't come for the ride. Security hazard." Jervis' wrists were briefly released, only to be refastened behind his back. Alice looked like she wanted to protest, but he spoke up to intercede.

"Alice, I'm sorry this has been cut short. But your visit made me…made me very happy, I have to tell you. Thank you," he said quickly, as the guard dragged him to a vertical position.

Alice also stood. "Thank _you_ for having me, Jervis. I'll be back soon—I was happy to see you."

"Always glad to host you, even under such circumstances," he replied softly, watching as she picked up her handbag and waved to him.

"See you soon, Jervis. I hope you have a nice week."

"You as well!" he managed before he was dragged from the doorway.

Oh well. At least he'd managed to save the ribbon.

* * *

Jervis waited awake for any noise from Crane's cell, wondering what tonight would bring. The softest sound came through, a mere scratching noise, no louder than the subtle grate of fingernails over skin. This was suspicious.

"Crane?" he breathed, heart in his mouth. His voice, less even than a whisper, seemed deafening to his own ears. There can no response, only steady scratching.

He waited.

There came, eventually, a soft click, and follow by the subtlest grate of metal on metal, the noise of a chain moving. Innocent enough, it was met with more scratching, albeit considerably less than there had been moments before, when another soft click sounded.

"You're leaving," Jervis exhaled, thinking. "Take me with you."

Jonathan did not reply.

"I'll tell a guard you're going."

"What will you earn in destroying me, Tetch?" the man finally responded. Jervis stayed silent, unwilling to admit that he had a point. "I'm using your idea…you should be flattered."

"If you were leaving and taking me with you, I'd be flattered. Contraiwise, you're leaving both this asylum and me to rot; thus I am not flattered. 'That's logic.'"

"Logic dictates what you make of it, Tetch—you in particular."

Jervis sighed. "Then send help once you're outside. One more incident like last week and I'll have no hands left."

"I will," the Master of Fear replied. Jervis was fairly sure this was a lie.

"Good luck, then." Jervis knew that at least part of this was a lie—he didn't want to lose his only source of companionship, but neither did he want him captured, beaten, tortured, or worse.

"Don't forget us."

"I won't," Jonathan replied, and Jervis was fairly sure this was the truth.

The blonde man laid back and thought of Alice, running the pale blue ribbon through his fingers and alarms and screams split the night.

* * *

A/N: Okay, kids--for my immediate purposes, this bad boy is over; everybody knows what happens once our Jonathan escapes, no? I might add to this someday, but for now? It's a wrap!


End file.
